Kathleen Harrington (35 page)

T
wo days later, Princess Margaret arrived in Newcastle. As she rode in her litter along the quayside, sailors scrambled to stand high in the crossbeams of the masts and shout huzzahs. Lord Thomas Dacre, Warden of the Marches, who was responsible for the integrity of the borders, rode beside her. Harry Percy, duke of Northumberland, rode on her other side, attired in a crimson-velvet doublet embroidered with rubies and sapphires at collar and cuffs. Wearing black kid boots with gilded spurs, the handsome young lord nearly outshone the princess. The crowd cheered as his spirited horse rose up its hind legs and pawed the air.

Margaret Tudor’s retinue of eighteen hundred ladies and gentlemen, richly arrayed, followed on prancing steeds with trappings adorned in silver and gold.

A
s her small band approached Alnwick Castle, the ducal home of the Percy family, Francine felt a bittersweet nostalgia. They had left Newcastle-upon-Tyne three days ago, stopping in tiny hamlets along the way. They were fast nearing her own estates, only ten miles beyond the great fortress. But the intimacy she’d shared with Kinrath during their stay on the
Sea Hawk
had seeped into her very soul.

She had remained at his side during the festivities in Newcastle, the banqueting and dancing. With the assistance of Master Burby, Francine had devised a floating picnic on the River Tyne. Small boats lit with torches and decorated with garlands of white and red roses, to symbolize the houses of Lancaster and York, sailed the length of the quayside in the evening dusk. Some craft carried the royal retinue, others, musicians and choirs of children. Townspeople, themselves holding torches, cheered from the docks as the parade floated by.

A warehouse, emptied of its usual stores, served as a gigantic ballroom, decorated lavishly in buntings of cloth of gold and the green and white of the Tudors. The local gentry, including magistrates and sheriffs, the mayors and aldermen of nearby towns, and wealthy merchants and landowners, all rubbed shoulders with the cream of England’s nobility.

Every night, Francine had returned with Kinrath and his men to the
Sea Hawk
. The bond between her and the magnificent Scot, forged by their passionate coupling, made the enchanted spell grow stronger and stronger, till at times, she didn’t think she could ever break its hold upon her. She was falling deeper and deeper under his thrall. All he need do was touch her, or whisper his magical words, and her body and soul responded.

“Oh, Mummy!” Angelica called, intruding on Francine’s reverie. “Look at the pretty castle!”

Alnwick stood on top of a rise, a mighty fortress that had endured since the eleventh century, guarding the wild stretch of England known as Northumberland. The huge castle had protected the area from the ravages of marauding parties coming from across the Scottish borders.

“Yes, dear,” she said. “I visited the castle many times during my youth, with my father and sister.” She looked over the top of her daughter’s head to meet Kinrath’s eyes. “I raced down the long corridors, playing tag with Harry Percy and Elliot Brome and Will Jeffries. As children we were unimpressed by the enormous wealth displayed in its formal rooms. We hid behind the palatial furniture and played blind man’s bluff on the imported French carpets. Only later did I realize the tremendous influence and power of the Percy family.”

Kinrath seemed to understand, without her saying it aloud: The pressure that influence had placed on her father, Lord Francis Parmer, Viscount Egerton, must have been substantial. Lychester and Northumberland were, no doubt, incredulous when her father had remained steadfast, loyal to the betrothal of his daughter to Will Jefferies, the son of a squire and wealthy landowner.

“Will we stay in the castle?” Angelica asked.

“Nay, lassie,” Kinrath replied. “We’ll attend the festivities there, but we’ll spend the nights at your mother’s home.”

Francine sent him a grateful smile. She had no wish to spend more time than necessary within Northumberland’s sphere of influence. Above all, she wanted to avoid any talk of his gaining King Henry’s permission for her to marry his cousin.

Margaret Tudor and her entourage would enjoy a welcome rest from the rigors of the journey north during their two weeks stay at Alnwick, entertained by the duke and duchess. But the princess wasn’t due to arrive at the castle until the next week.

Tonight, Francine would once again sleep in her own bedroom at Parmerton Manor.

As they rode into the village of Alwinton near Francine’s childhood home, her spirits rose. Her father’s unentailed estates, bequeathed to her and Cecilia upon his death, bordered the Cheviot Hills. Eight months had passed since Francine had visited her home. Not since the burial of Mathias in the church cemetery last winter.

When their band reached the sprawling manor house, the entire staff gathered outside the main entryway to greet their mistress, smiling and waving their welcome.

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

N
o longer responsible for the entertainment of over a thousand people, Francine slept late that next morning. Kinrath had risen at daybreak. He was probably with his men in the stables, inspecting their horses and Angelica’s ponies for any needed care. No doubt Francine’s blacksmith had already been put to work at his anvil.

Angelica was safe with Lucia, most likely in the spacious kitchen, enjoying Cook’s delicious raison scones.

Francine dressed quickly, anxious to leave the house before Kinrath came back to check on her. Slipping away without being noticed by anyone, she hurried to the mews.

Opening the door to the tool room, she found Fingus Mackay sitting on a wooden crate. He was stitching on a leather glove when she came in.

The master falconer jumped to his feet and bowed. “Lady Francie,” he said, grinning with pleasure at the sight of her. “Will ye be doing some hawking today?”

Francine went to the short, thin man and clasped his gnarled hands. She had known the Master of the Hawks since she was a toddler on leading strings.

“’Tis so good to see you, my old friend,” she said. “Yes, I’ll be taking a party out this afternoon. Please have the birds ready for us.”

His blue eyes misted with tears at the sight of her. His voice shook with emotion. “Aye, milady, I will, I will. ’Tis mighty glad I am to see ye, as well.”

“Sit back down,” she told him. “Go back to your work. I’ll sit here on this other crate and we can visit.”

“Weel, weel, just like old times,” he said, shaking his head at the memories between them. “When ye were naught but wee lassie, ye would slip away from your pawky tutor and run down to the mews.”

“And you would tell me the wonder tales of the Highlands.”

Fingus nodded as he sat back down and picked up the leather glove and awl to resume his work.

Along the walls, gloves, bags, and hoods hung from racks. On a storage cupboard in one corner, knives, awls, chisels, and large sturdy needles suitable for leatherwork awaited any needed repairs. Beyond the inner door, goshawks and sparrowhawks clung to their bow perches, while large falcons, peregrines, and smaller merlins stood regally on their flat wooden roosts.

Francine could see the birds eyeing her with curiosity through the wooden slats which lined the window that separated the inner and outer rooms. The mews needed to be as large as possible, so the birds could fly around safely and keep fit in bad weather.

“Do you remember when I received a falcon to raise and train for my tenth birthday?” she asked her old friend. “’Twas your job to guide me.”

“Oh, aye,” he said with a nod. “But only after ye promised your father, God rest his soul, that ye would attend to yer studies with yer tutor before heading to the mews.”

Francine laughed. “Your stories were so much better than Mr. Boardman’s lectures. All he talked about was dead Greeks and the Roman Caesars. You told me about a Celtic warrior who changed himself into a hawk and lived for a hundred years.”

Fingus chuckled. “Was that yer favorite, milady?”

“They were all my favorites. The stories of brownies and elves and wizards. And how an infant Highland chief could be stolen from his crib by the faeries and taken to the Otherworld to be raised by a sorcerer.”

“A’weel,” he said. “Ye were always a good listener.” Fingus tipped his crate back and leaned against the wooden post behind him, as he sewed two pieces of a hawking glove together with a thin strip of sinew.

Francine leaned towards him and lowered her voice. “Fingus, remember how you once told me that guessing the answer to a faery riddle could break a spell?”

He looked up from his work, his pale eyes alert. “Aye, lass.”

“I believe I have been enchanted by a sorcerer,” she confided. “’Tis a love spell. I’ve tried my best to discover the riddle to break the enchantment, but to no avail.”

“Wheesht, milady,” Fingus said, setting his work aside. His face etched with concern, he rose to his feet. He resembled one of the gnomes he had often described in his fantastical stories.

“Can you help me, Fingus?” she asked. “Can you help me discover the riddle?”

“Lady Francie,” he answered solemnly, “ye nae can break a sorcerer’s spell with a faery riddle.”

“Then how?” she asked, trying to conceal the desperation she felt.

He pushed his cap above his wrinkled forehead and ran his fingers through his grizzled hair. “Ye will have to find the counterspell written down in the sorcerer’s book.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Where will I find such a book?”

He shrugged, frowning in concentration. “Most likely, ’tis hidden away in his castle. Aw, but lass,” he said, sadly shaking his head, “’twill do you nae good to find it.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because the spells in a sorcerer’s book will be written in the Gaelic, milady.”

The door to the tool room swung open. They immediately turned with a start, then glanced at each other with a conspiratorial air.

Kinrath stood in the open doorway. He wore Highland garb, truly magnificent in red jacket, red-and-black kilt and shiny brogues, and his bonnet adorned with the three feathers of a clan chief.

“I’ve been looking for you, Lady Francine,” he stated abruptly, leaving no doubt that he wasn’t happy at her disappearance. “When I returned to your chamber and found you missing, we searched the house. You shouldn’t have left without an escort.”

“Surely, I’m safe on my own estate,” she protested.

Kinrath didn’t bother to reply. Scowling, he turned his attention to Fingus.

“Laird Kinrath,” she announced, by way of warning the little man, “this is our Master of the Hawks. Fingus Mackay has tended my family’s raptors since before I was born. I was just telling him that we’d be going hawking this afternoon.”

Fingus snatched off his cap and bowed so low his head nearly scraped the wooden floor. “Kinrath of Kinrathcairn,” he said, the admiration in his thin, reedy voice unmistakable. “I’ve heard of your exploits on sea and on land.”

To Francine’s surprise, Kinrath offered his hand to the elderly retainer. Beaming with pride, Fingus reached out to clasp it. They shook hands as equals, one proud Scotsman to another.

“I’ll walk you back to the house now,” Kinrath told Francine with that air of unquestioned authority he always assumed.

“I just want to say a few more things to my old friend,” she said, then added, “in private.”

Kinrath raised an eyebrow in speculation. “Very well,” he agreed. “I’ll be waiting just outside the door.”

The moment he withdrew, Fingus stepped closer to Francine. Close enough to speak in her ear. “Some spells are nae meant to be broken, Lady Francie,” he whispered.

She could tell from the finality in his voice that was all he was going to say on the subject.

T
he hawking party wended its way back to Parmerton Manor following an afternoon of successful hunting. While the MacRath kinsmen took the goshawks and returned down the lane to the manor house, Kinrath and Francine rode into the tiny hamlet of Alwinton. When they came to the little church dedicated to St Michael, where Francine and Cecilia had been baptized, she pulled on the reins and drew her mare to a halt.

“I’d like to make a brief visit to the cemetery,” she told Kinrath.

They dismounted, and he followed her through the iron gate.

Francine walked slowly amidst the tombstones till she came to her father’s grave. Francis Parmer had been laid to rest beside his wife, Georgiana. Francine knelt in the grass and said a silent prayer.

“My father loved Cecilia and me dearly,” she told Kinrath quietly, as she rose to her feet. She smiled at the happy memories that flooded over her. “Too much,” she admitted ruefully. “I’m afraid the two of us were the talk of the parish, the way he indulged us so. But when my mother died at Cecilia’s birth, he knew he would not have another child, for he was already old when we were born.”

Rising, she moved on to Mathias’s gravestone situated on a grassy knoll. He’d been buried alongside his first wife. Kinrath stood silently at her side. “Mathias took over where my father left off,” she said. “I was like a daughter to him.”

Kinrath took her hand in a comforting gesture. “You were fortunate, Francie, to have two such loving men in your life.”

Francine continued along the path, until she came to another gravestone, where she stopped. “Three,” she said softly. “I had three loving men in my life. This is the grave of my fiancé. He was only eighteen when he died.”

Lachlan read the etched lines, already worn from weather and time.

WILLIAM JEFFRIES

BELOVED SON AND BROTHER

1478–1496

He realized in shock what should have been clear to him all along. Lychester had murdered Francine’s betrothed on the deserted battlefield of Cheviot Hills out of jealousy. Even then, the marquess would stop at nothing to have her.

“Will was wounded in a battle,” she said softly, her head drooping. “Then someone took advantage of his helpless state and murdered him.”

Lachlan fought to keep the astonishment out of his voice. “How do you know that?”